


cant help it!!!

by retrogaymer



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: A Light Sprinkle Of Pining, Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Fluff, Gen, Ignoring Business Instructions, Light Angst, Mentioned Parental Neglect, Nanny Crowley (Good Omens), i keep having to pause while writing these tags bc i just love crowley and warlock so fuckign much, theyre just (clenches fist)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-23 00:26:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21311098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/retrogaymer/pseuds/retrogaymer
Summary: Warlock drew something at school, Crowley is overwhelmed with the guilt of his whole situation, and Aziraphale struggles to not kill plants.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale & Warlock Dowling, Crowley & Warlock Dowling
Comments: 7
Kudos: 203





	cant help it!!!

**Author's Note:**

> this was a bday present for @rosswoodblues!! find him under that url both here and on tunglr dot com

"I drew something at school today!"

Crowley, resisting a bemused smirk, turns a corner. Warlock said this as if it was some highly new and exciting activity, and he didn’t jump into the Bentley with a drawing to show off practically every other day. “Oh?”

“Yes! We had to draw… Well, the others had to draw their families, but I can’t really remember what mum and dad look like - so I drew something else.”

Ouch. Said so earnestly, like it wasn’t an issue. The parental neglect that comes with being the son of two busy people was probably part of Hell’s plan, meant to assist the general hatred of humanity, but it still sparks an anger in the pit of Crowley’s stomach. “Ah. What did you draw, then?”

“I’m not telling.”

Crowley glances in the rear view mirror at the grinning boy, eyebrow raised - “not telling?”

“Not telling!”

“I’m your _ Nanny _, you’re meant to tell me everything.”

“Too bad.”

“_ Naughty. _ ” Said like a very big compliment. “May I know _ why _you’re not telling me, or is that off-limits too?”

“Mmh,” Warlock considers loudly, tilting his head a bit to the side. “Yes! You may.”

“What a privilege. What is it, then?”

“Someone else has to see, too! I wanna show you together,” Warlock nods.

“_ Really? _ Who could be more important than me?”

Warlock laughs - “brother Francis!”

Ah.

“What’s that old geezer got to do with it?”

“That’s of limits!”

Crowley blinks, taking a second to deconstruct the sentence - “It’s _ off _ limits, heart. Not ‘of’.”

“Who says?”

“_ I _ say.”

Warlock seems content with that. Crowley is overcome by one of those waves of guilt he likes to repress, about how he’s Warlock’s whole world, and Crowley is only here on _ business, _ and he was initially selfish enough to wish Warlock out of existence to keep Earth running a little longer, to be with...

The hint of a shiver down his spine breaks him out of the thought spiral, makes him think _ realistically. _ The being behind him is the Antichrist, and probably doesn’t even hold him as close as Crowley is imagining.

Crowley is glad to get out of the car once they’ve been let through the gates, and take a moment to breathe, steady himself after stepping out of the driver’s seat before going to unbuckle his charge. As soon as he’s helped Warlock out of the car, the boy bolts down the fastest path towards the gardens. Crowley huffs out a sigh as he grabs the abandoned blue backpack, no doubt containing the all-important drawing, forgotten in young Dowling’s eagerness to bother the gardener. Crowley can’t blame him.

Still, he straightens up to look relatively more _ dignified _ and careless as he follows the trail of dispersed gravel. He certainly doesn’t look like a lovestruck fool who spends the majority of his free time yearning, _ no sir. _He looks like an important woman that frightens the other staff, except for Francis, for some odd reason.

Warlock is already fully engaged in recounting his day to Aziraphale once Crowley reaches the garden, arms locked around his neck and chest draped over his back, while Aziraphale struggles to continue gardening, crouched over a flower bed. As if he wasn’t struggling to begin with. The angel is _ lucky _ Crowley gives these plants a talking-to, exercising a demonic miracle here and there to cover his ass. They couldn’t have Aziraphale getting fired for his ineptitude if this plan was going to continue working, though Crowley _ certainly _wouldn’t blame them.

As he steps closer, Aziraphale peers upwards, catches him coming towards them and smiles, in that terribly fond way. Crowley wishes he wouldn’t smile like that, because it makes it a lot harder to resist smiling back. He manages to settle for a nod, stopping at a respectable distance from the angel. His sleeves are rolled up, tracks of dirt on his tartan button-up, his overalls, his skin-

Crowley catches himself in readjusting his blouse and needlessly brushing off his skirt while he _ stares, _ and huffs in annoyance at himself. The noise catches Warlock’s attention, and he finally let’s go of Aziraphale, who subtly grasps at his neck and stifles a cough.

“Nanny, could you go back to the car, I forgot- Oh, you have it!” Warlock practically jumps to grab the backpack from Crowley as he extends the hand holding it, immediately proceeding to rummage through it. “So, like I was saying, we had to draw a family portrait, but since I couldn’t remember well enough what mum and dad look like - “ Aziraphale’s face conveys the same emotional wince Crowley had felt earlier - “I got to draw someone else who takes care of me instead- here it is!”

Warlock pulls out and proudly holds out the artwork, and when Crowley leans down to look at it with Aziraphale, he physically feels his human organs stop working for a moment.

It’s him. 

It’s Crowley, and it’s Aziraphale, crude but crystal clear depictions of them, holding the hands of Warlock scribbled in between them. Crowley definitely isn’t about to cry, because he doesn’t _ cry, _ he’s a big scary demon and crying and getting touched by things is beneath him - but he _ is _ thankful Warlock can’t see his eyes, because whatever they’re doing could, _ potentially, _ to the less informed, be interpreted as tearing up.

“Oh,” Aziraphale is the first to break the silence, putting his hand on Warlock’s shoulder, “that’s _ lovely, _dear. Thank you very much.”

Crowley knows he shouldn’t praise something as good and pure as this. He probably shouldn’t encourage art at all, actually, and has already been much too lenient - he shouldn’t even smile at Warlock, he should make the boy as cold and damaged as possible, really counteract all of Aziraphale’s goodness as best he can.

“It is,” Crowley agrees, his voice tender and soft. He can’t help it, can’t _ help _the arms that wrap Warlock up in a hug, holding him tight and close, shutting his eyes and feeling the vibrations of Warlock’s bashful giggle against him whilst small arms make their way around his waist. 

He can’t help it. Heaven be damned and Hell be blessed, he _ can’t help it. _

**Author's Note:**

> i refuse to, and legally cannot, ever depict aziraphales canon disguise. [here is my excuse for it](https://mawbwehownets.tumblr.com/post/188807069240/listen-man), take it and leave me alone, michael sheen do NOT interact you horrid little man


End file.
